Chap­ter IV – The Grand­mam­ma opens with Agnes Grey return­ing to the Bloom­field house­hold after a brief and cher­ished stay with her fam­i­ly. Though the reunion at home had brought her a sense of renew­al, the com­fort fades quick­ly upon reen­ter­ing the cold struc­ture of her posi­tion as gov­erness. The chil­dren, espe­cial­ly Tom, are more defi­ant than ever, and the dis­ap­proval she encoun­ters from Mr. Bloom­field and his impos­ing moth­er casts a shad­ow over her every effort. Her gen­tle approach to dis­ci­pline is con­sis­tent­ly under­cut, either by indul­gent parental inter­fer­ence or by the chil­dren exploit­ing the gaps in author­i­ty. Agnes finds her­self judged not on the fair­ness of her actions, but on the stan­dards of a house­hold that val­ues obe­di­ence above under­stand­ing. The pres­ence of the grand­moth­er adds anoth­er lay­er of sur­veil­lance, one that often mis­in­ter­prets Agnes’s attempts at moral teach­ing as weak­ness. This cre­ates a tense envi­ron­ment where cor­rec­tion is expect­ed, but com­pas­sion is seen as a flaw.

One par­tic­u­lar day becomes a tri­al of patience and for­ti­tude when the chil­dren seem deter­mined to pro­voke her. Their mis­be­hav­ior is relent­less, and each attempt to guide them is met with mock­ery or out­right rebel­lion. Mr. Bloom­field, who sel­dom engages pos­i­tive­ly, choos­es this moment to inter­vene with sharp crit­i­cism, accus­ing Agnes of incom­pe­tence. The children’s grand­moth­er rein­forces this with an air of author­i­ty, her approval shift­ing unpre­dictably based on mood or bias. Even when Agnes does suc­ceed in calm­ing the chil­dren, the cred­it is rarely hers. Her posi­tion offers respon­si­bil­i­ty with­out pow­er, scruti­ny with­out defense. The emo­tion­al toll begins to wear her down, and though she remains calm on the sur­face, she feels increas­ing­ly unseen and unheard. Her expe­ri­ence mir­rors the real­i­ty faced by many women in sub­or­di­nate roles dur­ing the period—expected to man­age prob­lems, yet blamed when con­trol eludes them.

Amid these ten­sions, Agnes finds a sliv­er of sup­port in the house nurse, Bet­ty. While Bet­ty doesn’t ful­ly share Agnes’s val­ues, she at least acknowl­edges the dif­fi­cul­ty of the task. Her sug­ges­tion to use stricter meth­ods con­flicts with Agnes’s prin­ci­ples, yet it reflects the pre­vail­ing belief that harsh­ness is the only effec­tive means of con­trol. Agnes knows such pun­ish­ment would silence behav­ior but not cor­rect it. Her qui­et resolve to treat the chil­dren with respect—even when that approach is misjudged—underscores her inner strength. She holds onto her ethics, even while sur­round­ed by voic­es telling her they’re use­less. In her soli­tude, she reflects deeply on the con­flict between con­science and com­pli­ance. This inner strug­gle marks her devel­op­ment, not just as a gov­erness, but as a woman learn­ing to stand firm in a sys­tem that often con­fus­es sub­mis­sion with virtue.

The grandmother’s role in this chap­ter is par­tic­u­lar­ly reveal­ing. She serves as a fig­ure of inher­it­ed author­i­ty, using her influ­ence not to guide but to assert dom­i­nance. Her opin­ions shift based on con­ve­nience, and her will­ing­ness to believe the worst about Agnes expos­es the imbal­ance of trust in the house­hold. This cre­ates a con­stant pres­sure on Agnes to defend her­self with­out ever being allowed to speak freely. Her attempts to qui­et­ly cor­rect the chil­dren are dis­missed, while their poor behav­ior is excused or blamed on Agnes’s per­ceived inex­pe­ri­ence. The grand­moth­er’s sharp eye miss­es the heart of the matter—that the chil­dren lack dis­ci­pline because they are nev­er tru­ly taught it. In this world, the gov­erness is expect­ed to suc­ceed with­out sup­port, to con­trol with­out influ­ence, and to teach with­out being lis­tened to.

The chap­ter clos­es not with res­o­lu­tion, but with a deep­er under­stand­ing of Agnes’s posi­tion. Her fail­ures, if they can be called that, are not her own. They are the result of a role that demands results with­out offer­ing the tools to achieve them. She can­not reform the chil­dren if their own par­ents, and their grand­moth­er, won’t sup­port her val­ues. Yet she does not retreat. Instead, she begins to mea­sure her suc­cess differently—not in praise or obe­di­ence, but in her own abil­i­ty to stay true to her­self. This per­spec­tive, though qui­et, becomes a pow­er­ful form of resis­tance. Through her restraint, her moral clar­i­ty, and her patience, Agnes main­tains her dig­ni­ty, even when oth­ers try to strip it away. In doing so, she exem­pli­fies a deep­er strength—one that does not shout, but endures.